


Love Is a Four-Letter Word

by etcetera_nine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Disaster Crowley, First Time, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Languages, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), but only kind of, dummies in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 05:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19846408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etcetera_nine/pseuds/etcetera_nine
Summary: Five times Crowley tries to tell Aziraphale he loves him, and fails miserably.And one time—One time…Well, one time he tries again and still cocks it up, because let’s face it: he’s a bit of a disaster, really.





	Love Is a Four-Letter Word

**ONE**

“Do you know, my dear,” says Aziraphale. “I really think this might actually work?”

They’re sitting in Crowley’s kitchen the night the world doesn’t end, the little curl of Agnes’s last prophecy resting in the middle of the granite-topped island between them. Aziraphale is leaning forward, face tilted up toward him, eager and here and _happy_. The (very modern, very stylish) track lighting above them is making his hair glow like a halo, and he’s just come up with an idea that should save the two of them for good.

It might actually work. It _will_ work. They’re not going to die.

They’re not going to die, and Crowley loves him.

“Aziraphale,” he says, because it has been a very long day and if he doesn’t say something he thinks he might spontaneously combust, melting into himself in a puddle on the kitchen floor that vaguely resembles the still-smoking puddle of the demon-formerly-known-as-Ligur currently in his office. “Aziraphale, I love—”

Aziraphale blinks, his face calm and serene, open and waiting and… hopeful?

“I love... this plan,” Crowley grinds out, and refrains, somehow, from bashing his face into the granite. “Great plan, this.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale sits back and the hopeful moment is lost. He’s still smiling though, and Crowley tells himself: Next time. Next time I’ll say it. Next time.

Definitely.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, because he is an idiot. He gestures to the window, to the darkness blanketing Mayfair and beyond. “You, uh. You should rest. We can talk some more in the morning. You can… You can have my bed, if you like. I’ll be on fine on the couch.”

Aziraphale slides lightly off the stool, knowing he’s being dismissed. “Are you sure?” His voice is gentle, quiet, and Crowley cannot look below the surface right now to find out what he’s really asking. He just can’t.

Crowley nods, not meeting his eyes, and Aziraphale goes down the hall.

“ _‘I love this plan,’_ ” he mocks, as soon as he’s alone. “ _Meh meh meh meh._ You stupid fuck.” He rubs his hand over his face.

The ficus in the corner rustles his leaves at him.

“Don’t _you_ start,” Crowley mutters, and waves his hand in a vaguely threatening manner at garbage disposal. “I’ll say it next time, when I’m not so… distracted.”

**TWO**

He’s very distracted.

“Fuck,” he cries out. “Fuck! Oh, fucking…” He inhales, a great gasping breath that he doesn’t exactly need. “Oh, _shit_!”

But when Aziraphale collapses on top of him, he’s gasping as well.

“Fuck,” they both say together, and then they start laughing, blissed out and deliriously happy, a little sweaty and a lot sticky, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Say it, he tells himself. Say it now.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, when the laughing has quieted to happy sighs and his lungs have started working again. The skin of Aziraphale’s back is warm, pale and glowing and smooth under his hands.

“Yes, dearest?” he says, his lips against Crowley’s neck.

“Aziraphale, I love—”

Shit.

“I love—”

Fuuuuck, he screams at himself. What is wrong with you?!

“I love sex,” he blurts out. “Sex is… sex is great. It’s brilliant.”

Noooo.

He pictures himself falling through the bed, through the bookshop below, plummeting through the soil and rock and loam of London and back down to the pits of hell in all his humiliation.

But Aziraphale only laughs again, just a little, pulling Crowley tighter to him, and Crowley wonders if it’s possible to love him _more_. “I’m so glad. And I, dearest, loved that thing you did with your tongue. It was very…”

“Weird?” Crowley offers.

“A bit,” Aziraphale concedes. “But also good. And I would love, if you give me some more time, for you to do it again.” He makes a small _mmm_ noise against the skin of Crowley’s neck, and it buzzes deliciously. “Another ten minutes should do it, I think.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, still a little dazed, still wondering how he came to be the stupidest, luckiest idiot in the whole world. “Yeah, I can do that.”

**THREE**

Aziraphale is late.

Aziraphale is never late, and Crowley checks his stupidly expensive watch one more time, then his stupidly expensive phone, to compare. He sends one more text _(angel ur freaking me out here)_ and tries not to panic at the half dozen texts above it that have gone unanswered. The world almost ended just over a year ago, and they’ve only had an embarrassed radio silence from above and below since then, but even still, Crowley worries.

He worries a lot.

The server is refilling his water glass for the fourth time and setting down a second basket of poppadoms when Aziraphale comes bursting in the door.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps from the doorway, making everyone in the tiny restaurant turn to look at him. Then he’s rushing over, shrugging his coat off and pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Oh, good Lord, this thing keeps beeping at me, I can’t seem to—”

“It’s just me,” Crowley says, taking the phone from Aziraphale’s hand and clearing his frantic texts with a swipe. His hand is definitely not shaking with relief. “Just me beeping at you. Where the hell were you, angel? Not like you to be this late.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley with his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed.

It’s a familiar enough expression—not heaven or hell, then. Ah, Crowley thinks, this is going to be good.

“I had,” Aziraphale says. “A _customer_. Who kept trying to _buy a book_.”

“How dreadful,” Crowley deadpans.

“Terribly,” Aziraphale agrees, all sarcasm lost. “He just wouldn’t stop _talking_. So finally I said, ‘Excuse me sir, you’ll need to leave or I’ll be late for my anniversary dinner.’” He nods to himself, his eyebrows raised a little.

“And here you are,” says Crowley, desperately fond, all worry vanished by Aziraphale’s mere presence.

“And here I am,” Aziraphale echoes. He reaches across the table, taking Crowley’s hands in his. “I am sorry I’m late, dear heart.”

Crowley shrugs. “‘S fine.” It is. “Took the liberty of ordering for us, though, since we’re in a bit of a rush. Hope you don’t mind. Got you lamb vindaloo. I know you like the spicy ones.”

“You always know just what I like, don’t you?”

It’s just a stupid comment about Indian food, but for some reason, Crowley’s throat closes up. “Nah. I just love—”

Ah, fuck.

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hands.

“Lamb,” Crowley chokes out. “I just... love lamb.”

“You love… lamb,” Aziraphale repeats, slowly.

Crowley blinks at him from behind his sunglasses and prays for a swift death. Has anyone ever asphyxiated on a poppadom before? He could be the first. “Er. Yeah. Thought I might… share yours.”

“...Well! I hope you ordered yourself a lassi. Vindaloo’s a bit of an adventure from your usual korma, don’t you think?” Aziraphale pauses. “Remind me: why are we in a hurry?”

Ah. This, he can handle. He tugs his hands free from Aziraphale, slips one into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out the tickets. “Ta da.”

“This is… these are tickets to the Last Night of the Proms. Crowley, that’s tonight!” He’s wide-eyed, his voice filled with wonder, and Crowley’s mouth stretches into a grin so big it hurts. “I thought we were just going to record this on your television… I’ve been trying to get tickets to Last Night of the Proms for more than 75 years!”

Crowley tilts back in his chair, smug. “I know.”

“And you didn’t…” Aziraphale waves his fingers, like he’s doing his old magician act.

Crowley shakes his head. Although the two of them have happily wandered into plays and concerts and musicals without tickets over the years, very good seats somehow miraculously becoming available just in time, Aziraphale has always refused to do so for the Proms. They’re sacred, apparently: blagging orchestra seats to Sondheim may be one thing, but when it comes to classical music, Aziraphale has standards. “Just called in a couple favors.” He may be a retired demon at the moment, but he still has friends in high—or, depending on how you look at it—low places.

“I… You…” Aziraphale is still blinking at the tickets, but then he turns his gaze on Crowley and it feels like sunlight. “ _Thank you_ , Crowley.”

Crowley shrugs. “‘S nothin.’ Happy anniversary, angel.”

The food comes then, and the servers set plates down in front of them, so many that the table underneath disappears. Aziraphale takes in the spread and beams, either at the lamb or at him.

He’ll take it, either way.

“Happy anniversary, dear heart.”

**FOUR**

Anathema and Newt’s baby looks very much like a sleepy, red-faced little potato.

“Oh, she’s _lovely_ ,” Aziraphale chimes, from a safe distance behind Crowley’s shoulder.

“Yep,” Crowley says. He peers at the bundle over his sunglasses. “That’s a baby, all right. Nice job, you two.”

Newt looks relieved. “Thanks.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. “Not like you had much to do with it, mind.”

Newt shakes his head sadly. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” He sighs, then brightens. “Cheers for the Chinese food, by the way. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything warm in weeks. I’ll just go set the table, shall I?”

Anathema looks down at the baby in her arms. “I’m going to trade you for an egg roll now,” she says, very seriously, and then, to both Aziraphale and Crowley’s eternal surprise, she holds her out to Aziraphale. “Here you go!” she says cheerfully, and then Aziraphale has a baby in his arms and Anathema’s disappeared into the kitchen after her husband.

Aziraphale turns to Crowley, eyes wide and frightened. “Help?”

Shaking his head and laughing, Crowley fixes the baby in Aziraphale’s arms so that she’s not positioned quite like a rugby ball. “Just move that… Right, that’s it, one arm under the head, and… there.” He steps back to admire his work.

Aziraphale loves all of God’s creations, he knows. Including children. He just tries not to get too close to them. It’s a fair point, Crowley thinks. They do tend to explode rather often.

Crowley puts his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, nudging him over to the sofa. “Let’s sit.”

“Well,” says Aziraphale, settling back into the cushions. He smiles up at Crowley, angelic as ever, then down at the baby sleeping in his arms. “This isn’t so terrible, is it? I think… I think I’m getting rather good at it.”

You are, thinks Crowley, short-circuiting at the picture of Aziraphale, smiling and holding a sleeping baby. You’re wonderful at everything and I love you so much I think my brain is fucking melting. His next words are out of his mouth before he even knows he’s saying them.

“Aziraphale, I love—” he begins, but he’s interrupted by a mobile’s camera shutter and a bright flash of light. Blinking, they look over at Anathema, who’s grinning at them, then grinning at her mobile. She’s holding a half-eaten egg roll. “Aw,” she coos at the picture. “I’ll text it to you.”

“Anathema,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you go have dinner with Newt.” He tries to exhale. “We’ll watch the baby.”

“We will?” Aziraphale frowns, then amends, “Ah, yes, of course. We will!”

Anathema turns and practically sprints into the kitchen, the thought of eating something hot and having an adult conversation while using both hands being a temptation she can’t resist.

When she’s gone, Aziraphale turns to him. “What were you saying, dear one?”

The baby, as good at ruining the moment as her mother, snuffles into her clenched fist and starts to wail.

“I love babies,” Crowley mutters. It is only a lie at this very point in time.

“Yes, you do, don’t you? Would you like to take this one back? I rather think her back end is erupting.”

“Of course, angel,” Crowley says, sighing just a little, and holds out his hands.

**FIVE**

They’ve spent the day at the ocean, about a dozen miles west of Brighton. Aziraphale had suggested a picnic, and Crowley had driven and driven, taking the A24 south until it just stopped. Because he wanted to. Because he _could_. And because he thought Aziraphale would like it.

The sun is setting, and even though it’s been warmed all day by a hot—for England—August sun, the water is still freezing. It feels nice, though, and as they stand on the shore it crashes against their ankles, the pebbles round and smooth beneath their feet.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. The gulls cry and wheel by the pier. The ocean is a bright, gentle blue.

Several centuries ago Crowley had boarded a ship not too far down the coast, bribing its captain into leaving without waiting for the other passengers and miracling a rough southerly wind to take him quickly across the channel, just so he could save a stupid angel from getting his stupid head chopped off.

Now, he kisses the stupid angel’s stupid head, and the stupid angel sighs happily in his arms.

“This is wonderful,” he says. “You always do find the best places, my darling.”

“You can have it,” Crowley offers immediately.

Aziraphale twists in his arms, looking up at him. “What? The ocean? The whole thing?”

Crowley bites back a grin. “Whatever you want, angel. I’d give it to you, if I could.”

Aziraphale settles against him again. “If anyone could, it would certainly be you. You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you.” It’s not a question.

Crowley answers anyway. “Well, I do love—”

In his arms Aziraphale tenses the tiniest amount, long enough for Crowley to realize what he’s saying.

“—it here. By the sea. Is what I meant.” He contemplates disentangling himself from Aziraphale’s arms and walking into the water until he reaches France.

“Oh?” Aziraphale’s voice is gentle, and Crowley takes that as a sign to keep talking.

“Yeah. We could… we could get a place nearby. Just the two of us. Come down for the summers, maybe. Dirty weekend or two.” The more words he says, the more he realizes what a good idea it actually is. He pictures Aziraphale pottering around a little cottage, making tea and rearranging the bookshelves while he naps on the couch. He could move his plants down, start a garden in the back. An orchard. “A little house, maybe. By the sea. I have an estate agent.”

There’s half a moment of silence as Aziraphale processes his word vomit. “An estate agent?”

“How else do you think I bought my flat? Not like I have time to chase around properties in Mayfair.”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, patiently, “You bought your flat in 1955. I remember. We went to J Sheekey to celebrate. And you had,” he enunciates, like Crowley has committed a criminal offense, “ _potatoes_.”

“Well I certainly wasn’t going to eat three dozen oysters, like you did!”

“It was _J Sheekey_! You have to have the oysters!” Aziraphale insists. “Anyway, it was 1955, Crowley, I’m sure of it.”

“Huh.” Crowley thinks for a second. “Estate agent’s probably dead, then, I reckon.”

“Almost definitely dead,” Aziraphale agrees, then laughs. “Oh, Crowley. What am I going to do with you?”

Love me, Crowley thinks. Love me, be with me, stay with me, let me hold you forever. “Help me find a new estate agent?” he offers, instead.

“My darling,” Aziraphale croons, reaching up on his tiptoes to kiss him, warm and sweet, on the mouth. “Whatever you want.”

**PLUS—OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE**

In the end, there’s only one thing that’s demonic about the cottage. The little radio in the kitchen, no matter which way they turn the dial, is stuck on BBC3, and only plays classical music.

That’s not a problem for Aziraphale, because that’s all he listens to. Loudly. In the morning.

When Crowley stumbles in from the bedroom, half-asleep and bleary-eyed, Aziraphale is sitting at their little kitchen table, spreading jam on toast and humming along to the demonic radio.

The cottage is still only half-furnished, the kitchen bright yellow and looking for all the world like it belongs in an IKEA catalog from 1960.

Aziraphale loves it, of course.

They’re re-doing it slowly, without miracles. Aziraphale thinks it’s more satisfying that way, and privately, Crowley agrees. It’s not like they have anything better to do, and besides, it’s kind of nice to watch something change into exactly what you want, exactly what you need, because of you alone.

Publically, though, he grumbles.

He grumbles now at the radio, shooting it an evil look that makes it stop so abruptly he swears he can hear a violin clattering to the floor.

“I did wait until 10am, like we agreed,” Aziraphale says mildly. He’s twisting the lid back on the strawberry and rhubarb jam they picked up yesterday, at a little shop they’d originally found months ago when they were exploring the area. That stupid fucking jam, Aziraphale had told him, using slightly different words, is the best stupid fucking jam he’s ever had, ever, in his life, and would he mind driving them back to that sweet little shop so he could pick up another jar of it for his toast this weekend?

It was a two hour round trip. Aziraphale hummed the whole way there and the whole way back.

He’d do it again in a second.

“Any plans for today?” asks Aziraphale. He has toast crumbs on his cheek. Crowley thinks idly about licking them off.

“Garden’s coming along nicely,” he says, nodding to the window over the sink, which looks over the back of the property. On the window ledge is a framed picture of the two of them, looking vaguely terrified and holding Anathema and Newt’s baby. “There’s a strawberry bush or two in there somewhere. Should be some rhubarb as well. I’ll make you jam.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“Might go into town later and… get some cookbooks. And. Er. Learn to cook, I suppose. After I make the jam.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, and the way he beams at him and says his name makes his traitorous heart clench, scurrying up somewhere in the vicinity of his throat like a frightened mouse. It’s hard to swallow. “You are so very good to me.”

He shrugs. “It’s just ‘cause I—” He stops, swallows painfully. Stupid heart. “I…”

Aziraphale looks at him over the rim of his teacup, his eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

“I… I. Ngk.” Crowley tries again. “Aziraphale, I—”

Aziraphale puts his teacup down, looking very patient, and also very much like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Oh, great big buggering bollocks,” spits Crowley. He puts his face in his hands and moans. Why is this so hard? _Why_ is this so _hard_? He knows he loves Aziraphale, he knows it in his very soul—or whatever he calls the hard, twisted part inside him that’s always turned away, wincing, from the light. But he’s free now, they’re both free, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He can say it, no one will care, no one will come after them. He knows, now, that Aziraphale won’t laugh at him, won’t throw it back at him in anger, or worse, run away. If he could just say it like Aziraphale does, like Aziraphale says—

Crowley drops his hands from his face, realization dawning.

Like Aziraphale… Aziraphale… His mind is careening violently backwards, speeding in reverse through the last few years, cataloging every conversation, every quiet word, every sweet nothing whispered in his ear. And…

Aziraphale has never said “I love you” to Crowley. Not even once.

What the actual _fuck_ , Crowley thinks, and demands, “Aziraphale, do you _love_ me?”

It comes out fierce and angry, but Aziraphale gets a very fond, exasperated look on his face. “Crowley,” he says. “You stupid idiot.”

“What?” Crowley squawks.

“You absolute and utter moron. You total dumb-arsed, shit-for-brains…” He pauses, clearly having run out of insults in his angelic vocabulary. “Wanker,” he supplies, finally.

“Wanker!” Crowley cries. “ _Wanker_?!”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and then pats his lap. “Come here.”

Crowley, still insulted, crawls onto the very familiar expanse of Aziraphale’s lap. The old chair squeaks a bit, but holds. “‘m not a wanker,” he mutters. “‘n you don’t love me.”

He can feel him sighing. “Crowley. Of _course_ I do.”

Crowley pouts. “Why haven’t you said it, then?”

Aziraphale is petting his hair now, the traitor, just the way he knows he likes. Crowley leans into it, still sulking.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says. “It’s very obvious that you have… _problems_ ,” he emphasises delicately, “with the, er. L-word. So rather than upset you, I thought I could say it… without saying it. If you see what I mean. Dearest. Dear heart. Dear one.” He stops petting Crowley’s hair then, turning his face around so he can see his earnest expression. “My darling,” he adds, his tone pointed.

“Ah,” says Crowley, like a total dumb-arsed, shit-for-brains wanker. “Right. Well. I… I still want you to say it, though.” He waits, still a little sulky.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says simply, and Crowley does not discorporate on the spot. He does not melt into the floor, he does not spontaneously combust, and the mouse-like trembling thing he calls a heart does not quake right out of his throat. And that’s because…

Well, he knew it all along, didn’t he?

Still. “Say it again,” Crowley orders, needy and desperate, always yearning, always hungry.

“I love you,” Aziraphale begins, and Crowley shoves his face in his shoulder, the scratchy wool of his sweater vest, inhaling the sweet, bright smell of him and shuddering. “I love you very much. I love you more than anything. I have loved you for so long and in so many ways that I’ve lost count. I love you now, and I _will_ love you, until the end of the universe itself, and beyond that. If I can.” He pauses. “Now. Would you like to try?”

Say it, Crowley commands himself. Say it, say it back, tell him you loved him the minute you saw his stupid shining face, that you loved him so much you followed him through the beginning of the world, through the beginning of time, walking road after road, chasing him over sand and cobblestones and tarmac and consecrated ground until your feet bled. Tell him that you loved him enough to cross oceans and make the sky fall and try _oysters_ and stop time and save the whole fucking world, just to keep him at your side. And tell him that you love him so much you would fight all the archangels and all the lords of hell and Satan and God almighty herself just to be here, with him, in this dinky little kitchen, watching him eat his toast and jam while he hums along to the radio.

He takes a breath.

“Me too,” he mumbles, and then: “Ah, shit.”

Aziraphale laughs, and it sounds like bells. He strokes Crowley’s neck, his back, his shoulders, the space where his wings would be. “That was a very good attempt, dear. You’ll get it eventually. Plenty of time, after all.”

“I’ll get it eventually,” Crowley repeats, and the future stretches out wide and beautiful in front of them, full of love, full of possibilities. “We have plenty of time.”

**Author's Note:**

> "I love lamb" probably owes a bit to "I love lamp" from Anchorman. Even though it's been ages since I've seen it, the words "I love lamp" still crack me up. 
> 
> Let me know what you think and *I* will love *you*!


End file.
